Purgatory
by w.s.caer
Summary: A steady throb of sorrow and nostalgia floods his senses and he feels it in his fingertips, hears it in his ears disguised as the rhythm of his heart.


**Title:** Purgatory  
**Word Count:** 13 363  
**Disclaimer:** All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

**A/N**: I've taken some liberties with Mark's character here, especially near the end of the story. You've been warned o.O

* * *

pur -ga -to -ry [púrgətəri]  
_ noun_-Temporary condition of punishment and suffering of the soul.

* * *

Everyday he struggles. To open his eyes. To breathe. To exist. There's a constant ache inside his chest, pressure building until he's sure he's drowning in the chaos of his own life. And it doesn't get any easier, no matter what crap Derek tries to shove down his throat.

In the distance he hears a sharp crack and thinks the world is falling down around him.

* * *

_"I can't do this."_

_Mark pokes his head out of the bathroom, grinning wickedly. "You should see the shower in here, lots of space to manoeuvre."_

_"Did you hear what I said?"_

_"Yeah," he steps into the walk-in closet. "But I spoke to the realtor and she says they're in no hurry to sell so we can take some time to think about it." He rubs a hand through his beard, his back to her. "What do you think? Too small? I personally liked the first house better, but I'm fine with whatever you're comfortable with."_

_"That's not what I meant." Her voice catches at the end, prompting him to face her. A hand grips her elbow, knuckles white, a stark contrast to the black material of her jacket._

_"Lex?"_

_She looks away. "I thought I could do this. For you. I wanted to do this for you," she hiccups what sounds like a strangled sob._

_He approaches her cautiously, "okay," nods slowly, "we don't need to decide on anything right now. There's still some other places to look at and—"_

_"I can't do this, Mark."_

_He stills. Feels his heart squeeze painfully, a trickle of dread shooting down his spine identical to the sensation he had right before Addison told him about the abortion. "What are you saying?"_

_She holds the back of her hand to her mouth, looking at him through red rimmed eyes._

_"I'm sorry."_

* * *

Despite popular opinion, Mark has a heart; and it functions like any other.

It is a heart that beats to keep him alive. Bleeds, when he's cut. Feels want. Sorrow. Impatience. Anger, if he has been wronged. Hums with happiness when he has a successful surgery. And sinks with disappointment when he doesn't. It'll flutter with excitement; throb rapidly when desire runs through.

It loves. (Twice, it beat for somebody other than him.)

It breaks. (Twice.)

It's bruised and battered than most, has scars that even he can't lift, yet it continues beating.

It survives.

* * *

"What happened?" Derek asks, not for the first time. He's become an extra appendage to Mark these days. Virtually useless in practicality, but good for support.

He concentrates on scratching off the label of his beer bottle, half shrugging a shoulder in response. "What always happens." He tries to smile at Derek's staple sympathetic face, but it comes out as a grimace instead and he can't look him in the eye for what he says next. "She didn't want me." It's practiced. Rehearsed, the way he says the words and it's like some sort of bad imitation from the Addison saga.

Derek, for all his relationship and emotional know-how and knowing him for well over 30 years, it seems, doesn't know how to handle post break-up Mark better than anyone else. "I'm sorry," he offers awkwardly.

Mark looks at him from the corner of his eye, a small smile on his face. "That's what she said." He grins weakly, empty of any real emotion on his part, and apparently he's a better actor than he gives himself credit for, because Derek buys it and laughs.

"You're going to be okay. You'll see."

* * *

After Addison, he had shut down and dealt with it like he did with everything else. Fucking his way out of misery. And he tries that still, taking a woman or two back to the hotel, but even sex holds no solace now. Not with the ghost of her hands trailing his arms, his back; the feel of her delicate skin just beyond his fingertips; moans and whispers present in his ear.

So he finds other addictions to dull his senses.

He hasn't smoked in over 20 years, but these days he's going through cigarette packs like he used to condoms. And when that ceases to provide sufficient relief, he turns to scotch—sometimes vodka—and allows the numbness to take over.

Under closed eyelids he sees her moving above him, smiling.

* * *

_"I ran away once," she giggles as he kisses her neck, the rough stubble tickling her senses. "I put all my stuff in a box, but only made it as far down as the crosswalk."_

_"What made you go back?" he murmurs in her ear, low and soft, fingers working their way under her shirt._

_She grins, placing a hand over his heart. "I missed home too much."_

* * *

Several weeks in, his life consists of three things:

Cigarettes. Avoiding Lexie. Cigarettes.

In that order.

And when she starts walking back the way she came after seeing him coming down the hall, he thinks she must have an order too.

* * *

There's this scrub cap that comes back in the hotel's laundry service. Forest green, because she insisted he needed more than shades of blue in his wardrobe and he was steadfast in refusing to wear the rainbow coloured scrub tops she had originally bought. The green is even embroidered with Mark Sloan in tiny white letters along the back. Then, as a joke, she had Property of Lexie Grey threaded on the inside.

He had grumbled and made a show of being objectified with the surgical version of being branded like cattle but the truth was, and the way she had beamed at him hinted she knew too, the gesture that a member of the opposite sex would willingly want to lay claim to him sent an unfamiliar, pleasant tingling through his body and little jolts to his heart.

It wasn't something he was accustomed to, with his mother ignoring his existence from the moment breast feeding wasn't required. Addison clearly hadn't wanted anything to do with him, opting rather to jump into a supply closet with an intern, and he never gave any other woman the chance.

He finally understood then, what he hadn't before. Things like belonging and family and home. Understood how Derek didn't give up everything in New York for Seattle, but rather, gave it all up for a woman. And that's when he came to the realization he was willing to do the same.

* * *

In an effort to forget, he gets really shit-faced at the bar and since his self-appointed guardian angel is in surgery for another four hours, Callie, the only other person in his friend reservoir, has to come and take him home.

"You need to stop moping." She stands in the doorway of the bathroom, frown in place as he empties the contents of his stomach. "Seriously. So what if she broke up with you?It happens. You need to get over it. She obviously didn't care—"

"Shut up," he growls, surprising them both with the anger behind it. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about, so just shut the fuck up."

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, hands going up in mock self-defence. "Hey, I'm on your side here."

He collapses against the wall opposite the toilet and buries his head in his hands, eyes squeezed shut. His heart is beating in an odd rhythm, twisting and contorting in on itself agonizingly. "I can take care of myself. I don't need you to babysit me. I don't need you. I don't need Derek. I need—" he falters.

Callie looks at him.

"Just leave me the fuck alone."

A moment later, he feels hands against his head pushing him into the soft column of her neck. And it's pathetic, the way he's systematically breaking down over something he would have scoffed at a year ago.

But, then. Fingers comb through his hair and he is taken back to a time with another instance of pain, another woman weaving her hands into his hair.

He loses himself in the touch.

* * *

_"It's not just the sex."_

_"I know."_

_"And you're not-"_

_"I know."_

_"There isn't any-"_

_"Mark, I _know_."_

_He smiles, relieved. "Okay._"

* * *

The thing is, he made an effort this time. Really made an effort. To be a little more open, and deserving. A better person for her so she might be just the tiniest bit proud to be with him. He was even a little less self-destructive, he thinks. Yet, in the end, he still managed to fuck it up somehow. Maybe life just likes kicking him in the face. He inhales a cigarette and tries not to think about it.

* * *

They fought once. After a long day and patients dropping like flies, tempers flaring. Words like _masochistic asshole_ and_aggravating bitch _and a whole host of other colourful terms being flung carelessly, and when they finished tearing each other into shreds, she stormed out as Mark viciously yelled not to let the door hit her ass on the way.

She avoided the hotel for two weeks and he'd been in a foul mood the entire time after, snapping at interns and residents alike, while disregarding other Attendings, and generally being impossible to work with.

But their need for sex won out, and they came together in an angry clash of limbs and lips and fingertips pressing into skin, sighs and moans filling the silence around them.

The next day, she rode in to work with him and they had an early breakfast of bagels and coffee, having reached a nonverbal understanding sometime between their last bout of sex and when they fell asleep ten minutes later, to forgive and forget.

He waits for it to happen this time around.

* * *

Smoke rushes out his nostrils, settling his agitated nerves and smoothing over fray ends. He's standing by the trauma entrance when she comes bustling through, gown in place and gloves slipping on. Stopping a good 15 feet away from him, she openly stares. Shock and mild disgust intermingling. "You smoke?"

He doesn't say anything, instead letting out another exhale of poisonous air.

"Since when?" It's a challenge. Like seeing him do it in physical form isn't proof enough.

A biting remark is on the edge of his lips but the sound of approaching sirens pulls her away, and she gives a disapproving look as she rushes to open the ambulance door. "You're an idiot."

He inhales twice as hard on the cigarette out of spite, but she's already on her way in, leaving him behind.

* * *

Twisting the coffee cup in his hands, Mark stretches out his legs in Derek's office. "I think," he flicks off a piece of fluff from his knee, "I tried too hard."

Blue eyes peer at him over top the computer, the clicking of the keyboard ceasing. "To do what?"

He shrugs. Looks away. "Be someone else."

The chair squeaks as Derek shifts in place, and he knows how out of the norm this is, how fucked up their roles have become. Him, with the relationship issues and Derek being … supportive. Treating him as an equal. Being not Derek. There are instances where it gets awkward like this, when Mark blurts out what's on his mind and Derek looks at him like a stranger, like the man sitting in his office isn't the same guy who he flipped through Playboy magazines with.

"You were happy when you were with her." Derek's eyebrows arch up, as though he's partially still in disbelief over it, but Mark recognizes it as his way of stating an observation and nods, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips.

"Yeah. I was." Or maybe he just thought he was.

"Mark," he pauses and Mark mentally snorts. Derek always did enjoy a touch of the dramatic. "You can't be happy with someone if you're not yourself."

In a messed up sort of way, it kind of makes sense. And he clings to that.

* * *

The first time they are in for a surgery, she stands on his right, beside Derek, since Mark certainly didn't ask her to scrub in. He sneaks glances whenever he can because he hasn't really seen her around the hospital, not up close anyway, and definitely not at the hotel. The circles under her eyes are a little darker, only noticeable to someone who knows every inch of her body and aside from that, there's nothing to suggest she experienced anything worth losing sleep over.

He pulls harder than necessary on the stitch he's working on, suddenly filled with bitter resentment. Had it meant so little to her? Judging by her cool composure and intent focus on the task at hand, it obviously had. He grits his teeth, feels his heart hammer inside his chest, and continues working as fast as he can. A minute later, the crick in his neck that's been building for two hours finally becomes too much and he rolls his head in all directions to relieve the pressure.

"Dr. Sloan, do you think you could slow down so the interns could benefit from your vast knowledge?" Derek's eyes crinkle around the corners at his light teasing.

"The interns can do us all a favour and go fuck themselves. That's the only thing they're good for," he mutters under his breath and Derek looks up sharply.

"Dr. Sloan."

Dropping in the instruments in the tray, he declares, "I'm finished here." He's already halfway out the door by the time Derek gets it together to glare at his retreating back. With strict urgency Mark yanks off the surgical gown and scrubs out. In less than five minutes time he's sitting on the bench outside, hands shaking as he pulls out a cigarette and brings it to his mouth. Several tries of the thumbwheel later, pleasure in the form of nicotine courses through him and he tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and breathes out relief at the expense of his heart and lungs.

When Derek finds him 45 minutes later, he's on his third stick, hands steady now.

"What was-?"

Waving a hand dismissively, he says, "Nothing. I'm fine."

"Of course you are." There's something about the way Derek says it that has Mark shooting daggers.

"Did you need something?"

"No." He shakes his head, shoving his hands in the pockets of his white coat and turns to leave. "And you should stop smoking; it's disgusting."

* * *

"For what it's worth," she says after surgery one day, breaking the silent coexistence, with a side of repressed tension they have perfected to an art form, "I didn't want it to turn out this way."

His jaw clenches on reflex.

"I really thought…" And he never finds out what, because she smiles softly at him, like he should instinctively know.

He really fucking hates her right then.

"Don't," he grinds out angrily, scrubbing furiously until his skin turns red and raw. "Don't coddle me. Don't tell me what you want or didn't want. Don't try to do me any favours. Just … Don't."

"That's not what I was-"

"Save it. I don't want to hear it." He ignores the hurt look that cuts across her face, the pink lips parted in disbelief, as he dries his hands. Somewhere in the back of his head, he recognizes it's more about hurt pride and wounded ego, and not even close to how he really feels towards her.

Once he's put enough distance between them, he searches his pockets for a cigarette and lets out a silent _Fuck _when realizing he's already gone through his pack for the day.

* * *

_Her hands wind tightly around his waist from behind, chin coming to a rest on his shoulder. He stiffens._

_"What are you doing?" He feels her grin against his cheek, sees the corner of her mouth lifting in his peripheral, and hears the smile behind her words._

_"I missed you."_

_He tries to shrug off the warmth that rolls off from the honesty in her voice with a nonchalant grunt, but it wraps itself securely around his heart. "Yeah?"_

_"Yeah."_

* * *

Callie drags him out to Joe's for a drink, leaving him then, unsupervised, while going off to dance with the Peds surgeon.

Women who aren't employed at Seattle Grace-those that are, know better-make eyes at him, but he ducks his head and keeps staring at the wooden counter in front of him. The glass of scotch sliding back and forth in his hands. Turns out, despondence coupled with cigarettes and hard liquor attracts chicks as well as smug charm does, because it takes less than two minutes for the seat next to him to be filled by a blonde in a dress two sizes too small.

It takes less than another five before she's smiling suggestively and arching her eyebrows in a very not-so-subtle manner, inviting him to play.

He hasn't gone this long without sex since Addison's stupid bet, and surprisingly doesn't mind it. He needs a warm body tonight though, to bring his self-loathing nature full circle, and since she's willing and not Lexie-which is really all that's required-he smirks and leans in close so that their clothes lightly brush and flirts just enough that 20 minutes later, they're riding the elevator at the Archfield. Mark's tongue down her throat, the taste of tequila strong, and hands on her ass as she grinds into him. The elevator dings at his floor, and they're stumbling down the hall, lips still fused.

He doesn't see her waiting by the door, cardboard box set at her feet, eyes nervously wide, until he's ten feet away. Then it becomes a difficult, uncomfortable mess for both. The blonde clings to his arm, a leech sucking the life out of him as seconds tick by, and he can't bring himself to speak first.

"I, uh …" Lexie licks her lips and he zeroes in on the action. "Some books you lent me," she moves her shoulders, and it is an awkward, painful gesture.

He should say something, he knows. She's looking at him like there's supposed to be something he's doing, but he doesn't fucking know what. His tongue lies thick and heavy in his mouth, lethargic for speech.

"I should go. It was …" Another lick of the lips; she's struggling, and the smallest amount of cold, hard satisfaction settles somewhere in his gut. "You're busy. And I should go." She moves away from him, towards the opposite end of the hall, opting to take the stairs rather than the elevator.

When she touches the handle of the stairwell, panic finally sets in. It races through his veins, grips his lungs and heart in a vice and sets him into motion. Something holds him back though, restricting his movements, and when he looks back he realizes the blonde is still latched onto his arm. "Let go," he orders, shaking her off with near violent irritation, then roughly yanking his arm out of her grasp when she takes half a second too long.

Throwing the door open, he hears the _slap slap slap_ of her shoes on the stairs. "Lexie!" he hisses, thundering down after her. "It's not what-Hey, wait-Look, will you just goddamn _stop_?"

She freezes on the step below him and turns, all sharp angles and defiant chin. "What." It's said with an edge he's familiar with, one that he has been teetering on himself, and he thinks that maybe - maybe - they can come back from this.

He swallows, unsure of what to say now.

The stairs have him looming over her, giving him the illusion of power and she must sense this because in about two seconds flat, she's standing on the same step as him, glaring at him in the face. "What the hell do you want, Mark?"

Her lips move. Forming words and making sounds, he's sure, but all he can think about is how long it's been since he felt them sliding over his. The way her eyes squint a little in that way he can't resist when she's angry. The flush of her cheeks when she gets worked up; or as she comes. And suddenly, he's aware. They're in a dangerous position, nearly pressed against the other in the cramped stairwell; her thrumming with anger, and him with want.

Mark sees her mouth begin to open, probably to yell, but she never gets a chance because he backs her against the railing, hands framing her face, the hard metal, no doubt, digging into her back. But, he doesn't care.

He doesn't care as his tongue is insistent against her lips; as his fingers smooth down over her gentle curves, trying to find a sliver of skin; as he feels the pressure of her nails sink into his scalp, dragging all the way down to his neck. It's a delicious pain he gets drunk off of, churning low in his stomach. Then, she's pushing into him, hands at shoulders and sharp teeth biting at lips while his fingers curl into her hair. With an abrupt jerk, he tilts her head up, angling it tightly under his mouth, and fuck, it's been entirely too long since he's tasted her. He drinks in the familiar flavour of her watermelon chapstick; the hint of something sweet that's uniquely her, and a guttural moan rips from his throat.

She tenses in his arms.

He keeps kissing with a desperate passion, almost frenzied, refusing to let go. It's not until she harshly nips at his tongue does he back away, dropping his hands, breaths coming in quick heavy spurts.

Her lips are swollen, and raw and wet, and there's a moment's pride surging through him before the sound of her hoarse whisper. "You taste like tequila."

Mark immediately flinches, a reflex at that can't be helped because she knows all too well his choice of drink is never that. "Sorry," he mumbles, looking away uneasily as reality wedges its way in between them again.

He hears her exhale hard through the nose, somehow sounding resolute and determined in whatever she's about to do. "I need to go," drops like pins and needles from her mouth, and if it weren't for the crack at the end, she might have actually convinced him she was unaffected.

"Yeah," he mumbles again, watching her feet in their ratty white sneakers, shuffle out of view.

"I …" she starts, and he quickly looks up, probably too hopefully because she shakes her head and goes tight-lipped, swallowing whatever she was about to say. "Nothing." The door shuts with a decisive click and once again, he's the one who's left behind.

* * *

A moan sounds in his ear, followed by several breathy expletives and_ Oh, god, more!_with biting nails in his ass urging him deeper. And, it isn't any variation of anything he hasn't heard before, so he tunes it out. Blocks out the blonde hair and blue eyes as well, replacing it with shades of brown. It doesn't take long then, before he comes hard and fast with her clenched around him, teeth sinking into his shoulder as adept fingers rub her clit.

And if her name doesn't fall from his lips, it's because no other does either.

* * *

It's a Thursday.

He's been sitting in the driveway for at least 45 minutes already, alternately between clutching and releasing the steering wheel. It's dark outside, and bordering on creepy how long he's been sitting there, but he can't get her face out of his head. The smoke from his second cigarette filters out the wedge of space created by the lowered window, and this is something he's probably going to regret later, what he's about to do. What he has been considering doing ever since three weeks ago at the hotel.

Taking one last puff of courage, he gets out of the car, stamps the cigarette and makes his way to the front door. Tonight, he's wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Maybe he should feel relieved it's her who answers the door; this way he won't have to go through sacrificing his dignity to Derek to let him see her, but the knot in his stomach grows even worse. "Mark? What are you…I'll, uh, let Derek know you're here."

"Don't." He winces immediately at the word, flashes of memories of the last time he used it going through his head. "I mean," he sighs, "I wanted to talk to you."

She opens the screen door and steps out, worry etched into every corner of her face. "Is everything all right?"

He laughs, slightly nervous but mostly bitter, because nothing has been even fucking close to _all right_for two months. "It's not enough," he starts, swallows thickly. "The endless surgeries. The mindless fucking." Averting his gaze, he speaks softly, "Going home to an empty room."

"Mark-"

He shakes his head. "I don't want to go back to that. I can't." He looks up then, only now noticing how wide her eyes are, how truly unexpected his presence is. "And I know you're not ready. I know a relationship isn't what you want right now. I _know_this." He licks his lips and somewhere over her shoulder, Derek moves into view. "But you know me."

"Mark-"

"You know I don't do this. The relationships. The standing on front porches in the middle of the night. The speeches. You know that. But, I'm doing it now, for you. I'm standing on the front porch in the middle of the night and I'm making a fucking speech, because I'm so _sick and tired_of waking up every morning wondering where the hell you are; why I'm waking up alone in the goddamn bed again. So, I'm asking. Where the fuck are you, Lex? Because I sure as hell haven't gone anywhere."

Her mouth opens, closes, opens again but no words, no sounds, nothing is formed and the ball of nerves in the pit of his stomach feeds off the silence.

"Lexie?"

His world stops.

She swivels her head sharply and he mimics the movement. A young, fair haired boy stands ten feet away from them, prim and proper in his suit, eyebrows raised questioningly. "You said seven." There's a hint of uncertainty tainting his voice.

When Mark swings his eyes back to her, it clicks. Everything falls into place. He sees more than just her face now. The purse in her hands. The silver tops her mother gave her, dangling from the earlobes. A purple dress, and her nice pair of strappy black heels.

Addison and Karev coming out of the supply closet.

Suddenly, everything is too loud. The clicking of heels on the pavement. Her _Yeah, I'm coming_as she leaves him staring after her; the rumble of the engine as it roars to life and takes off down the road.

There is no silence.

His heart's in his ears. Derek's footsteps resounding off the floor, and the quiet of his _Do you want to come inside?_He thinks maybe he's in shock; the mind protecting the body from unimaginable pain.

Something touches his shoulder. He flinches. It's just Derek. Looking at him like he's a wounded little animal. Bambi. If the irony wasn't so fucking agonizing, he'd laugh.

"Let me drive you home." The hand on his shoulder tightens. The pain gets through the barrier. Rips its way through his lungs, his chest, his heart. It's familiar, and he relishes in the feel.

"How…" he rasps, "how long?" And that can't be his voice he hears. It's weak. Barely above a whisper. Pathetic.

"Don't do this."

Anger briefly flares, a hot fire licking at his nerves, and that's familiar too. "How long has she been sucking his—" he abruptly stops, mouth refusing to form the words.

Derek purses his lips, expressing disapproval and seeming apologetic all at once, like this is the last thing he wants to tell him. "Three weeks."

Three weeks.

While he's been standing still, feeding carcinogens to his body, she's already moved on to the next player in the game. He's finally ready to settle down, slow down a bit. Maybe even take the plunge, and drop to one knee someday. But the woman he wants goes running in the other direction. Again.

Fate always did like to screw with him.

"I need…" he starts, and there're so many fucking possibilities, all beginning and ending with her. Instead, he digs out a cigarette and his hands are near convulsing, trembling like he has a disease, and Derek has to light it for him. No judgement this time.

"I'm sor—"

"_Don't_." The only thing he hates worse than that phrase is the pity extruding with it. He inhales the burning chemicals, letting it fill him completely before forcing the smoke out, hard, through his nose. "Women always leave me, Derek. Why do you think that is?" It's a hollow question, not meant to be answered, and Derek seems to understand that. He doesn't say anything, just wears his characteristic mournful face and gives the shoulder another squeeze.

Maybe it's time Mark takes a page from the two women and leave his sorry ass behind.

* * *

_"I don't know what I'm doing," she confesses in a small voice, the admission safely nestled within the crook of his neck._

_He pulls her head back, holding it in place with both his hands, and leans in to wet her lips in a soft kiss. "Neither do I," he sighs in her mouth_.

* * *

Mark casts his fishing line in the same direction as Derek's, accomplishing only aggravation as it falls short on the rocks and none of the Zen that Derek swore would come with this. "I'm thinking of moving back to New York."

Derek nods approvingly. "It's nice this time of year."

"You're not going to try to convince me to stay?"

"Do you want me to?" He raises an eyebrow at Mark, faint amusment playing in his eyes.

Mark shrugs in response, talking around the cigarette between his lips. "I don't know." He doesn't know a lot these days.

"You need time, Mark. Not space."

"Is that your way of asking me to stay?"

"I'm not asking you to do anything."

"Because I will. If you want me to."

"I'm not."

"It'll probably take some time to find a decent apartment. You know how hard that is. Might take weeks. Even months. And I'll have to think about whether to rent or buy. Manhattan, of course. But-"

"Stay in Seattle. I'll let you house in the trailer."

When he turns to face Derek, he finds blue eyes already trained on him, knowing and perfectly serious in their offer. "Really?"

"Really."

He smiles, a genuine one that hasn't made an appearance for weeks. "Okay."

Except. It's not the person he wants asking him to stay.

* * *

Her brown hair falls in waves around her face, eyes and head rolling back as she drives her hips against his in a steady rhythm. He grins at her expression, mouth partly open and eyes blissfully closed, at her flushed cheeks and the slight dampness of her skin. Runs the tips of his fingers along her nipples. She shudders - gives a low moan, covering his hands with her own as he massages each breast.

"Mark." It's soft, a caress flowing from her lips and he bucks hard, once, from under the emotion of it. He watches her bite her lip, fingers pressuring his own on her skin as she moves faster, and he matches the pace, sliding in and out of her with as much fervour. She's panting now, coming down on him harder and faster each time, and a growl escapes his throat at the sight. Her eyes open, slowly blinking, unfocused as she looks at him. "_Mark_."

He wakes, startled, automatically reaching across the mattress to find … nothing. It takes a moment to realize where he is, for the confusion to lift and remember he is alone in the bed. He shifts, groans as he becomes painfully aware of the hard-on he has waken up with.

It's a repetition of nearly every other night. And like every one of those nights, he knows what's about to play out.

His hand travels down, slipping the waistband of his sweats down just enough to free his aroused state, before wrapping fingers securely around himself. He hasn't done this since he was old enough to get laid, and God knows that was pretty early on, and never while fantasizing about a girl he actually knows; only the ones in the magazines. But who he was then - even who he was a few months ago, and who he is now are a world apart, and he's learned since, he's willing to do a lot of things he wasn't before. Live in a fucking trailer for instance.

Expectations of himself were too high back then, he thinks.

So he allows himself to get lost in her memory. Recalls the smell of her hair; the taste of her skin; the feel of her wet and wanting, back arcing as he drove into her from behind.

His toes began to curl as he picks up the rhythm, groaning at the flashes of naked skin on naked skin. Imagines slender fingers on him, moving, stroking him up and down. He comes with a heavy moan, and her name a soft sigh on his lips. Hot fluid lands on his lower abdomen and on the sheets around him, but he can't find it in himself enough to care as he drifts back to reality.

Just another night.

* * *

_"If you could, would you do it differently?"_

_She's referring to Addison and Seattle, he knows. "I'm not sure," he answers honestly. "Sometimes, I think I would. But…" he trails off, blinking into the darkness._

_"What?" She impatiently nudges him, and he bites back a smile. Her incessant curiosity, almost to the point of being invasive, constantly amuses him._

_He studies her, the Columbia sweatshirt nearly double the size on her small frame, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Never has he thought something could look so innocently sexy. "Other times," he breathes, blue eyes focused intently on brown, hand moving up her thigh. "I wouldn't change a thing."_

* * *

"You're going to give yourself cancer at the rate you're going."

He rolls the cigarette between his forefinger and thumb, and doesn't even bother to face Derek when he replies. "At the rate I'm going, that'd probably be a blessing." He likes to think he's joking but both he and Derek know better, and they ignore the ripple of truth underneath it all.

They stand for a long while beneath a blanket of littered stars, overlooking Seattle, one exhaling smoke and the other trying to blend in with the scenery, intermittent sounds of the forest disturbing the quiet stillness around them.

He can feel Derek's eyes on him, assessing, like he's not sure what to do with him. "What?" he asks, agitated by the prolonged stare.

"Nothing…" Derek replies, shaking his head. "Just … I never thought you'd …" He shrugs a shoulder.

"Yeah," he mumbles, "me too." Then, taking one last puff of the cigarette he rubs it out with his foot and shuts himself inside the trailer.

* * *

It's hard some days, recognizing the face in the mirror. As a plastic surgeon, he knows everything is the same: the bone structure; the alignment of his eyes; the distance of his mouth from his nose. None of these have changed, but there's still something inexplicably different about the man staring back at him.

* * *

He's on his way home, to an empty trailer in the woods and a supper of grilled cheese and beer, when Derek corners him in the parking lot. "Meredith wants you to come over for dinner."

Mark looks sceptically at him. "Does _Meredith_know that?" And it seems he's right on the money because Derek grins sheepishly.

"Not yet," he blocks the way as Mark tries to slip in the front door of his car. "But she will. So show up tonight at 8:00."

"Look, I apprecia-"

"It'll be just the three of us."

There's nothing he can say to that—his only apprehension quieted—and so he begrudgingly accepts and Derek makes a show of his teeth like he's not all but forcing him to come. "Great. I'll see you in a couple of hours then. And don't even think about flaking out; I know where you live."

And that's how he finds himself standing on Meredith Grey's front porch for the second time in the last month, wearing a carefully pressed black dress shirt and jeans. There's a second, when the door swings open, he stops breathing. It's only Derek though, standing on the other side, and he doesn't know whether to be disappointed or not.

To his surprise, the dinner goes smoothly. Derek makes quite the effort to lessen the awkwardness of the setting and it works. Mark finds himself laughing so hard he feels his face turn red as they reminisce over collage tales to Meredith, who for the most part has been a player on Team Mark tonight. That is, trying not to be socially awkward. Occasionally, he'll catch her looking at him with a peculiar look on her face, like a puzzle that doesn't quite fit. He ignores it, slightly unnerved and having no idea what it means.

The front door opens and shuts with a bang, laughter flowing from the foyer. It's obvious by the sound of the giggling who it is, he'd recognize it even if he was deaf, and braces himself for what's about to come. Across from him, Derek exchanges a look with Meredith. "I thought you said she was—"

"Hey! I don't hope you don't mind that we—"

Mark turns around to look at her, tight-lipped and regarding with weary eyes. The boy is with her as expected and, probably because he lacks life experience, is oblivious to the tension radiating from the other four occupants of the room, picking up where Lexie forcefully stopped. "-that we're crashing your evening. We decided to ditch the play and just come back."

The kid is all smiles and bright, shiny eyes, and it reminds Mark of Lexie, which is an inconvenience he doesn't need because, really, he wants to hate this kid. He focuses on the fact that his hand is probably settled on Lexie's ass, and it does the trick because a surge of anger flows through.

"Um, we'll just…w-we-we'll go upstairs and…" she trails off, already turning and dragging her date along when Mark stands.

"Don't bother, I was just leaving."

"Mark—" Derek starts, and he can already read the protest in his voice.

"Hey, you were here a few weeks ago, right? I think it was you when I came to pick Lexie up."

Lexie freezes in the doorway. Mark covers his wince with a shrug of the shoulders.

"I'm Adam. Adam Byson." He extends a hand, still smiling, still being friendly.

Mark stares at it, blinking a few times. Thinks about ignoring it all together and getting the fuck out of there.

"Adam, this isn't the—" And it's the way Lexie talks, how her voice wavers between the first and last syllable, half-afraid that he might do something like knock the kid flat on his ass.

Then it becomes about holding his own against her. Proving her wrong about what she thinks she knows about him. And he realizes there's a touch of arrogance and pride fuelling his actions, but he couldn't care less as he firmly returns the handshake. "Mark Sloan. Plastic surgeon."

"Cool." If possible, his smile grows wider, and Mark finds he has bright, shiny teeth to go with his bright, shiny eyes. He drops his hand, resisting the urge to squeeze until the twerp is twitching in agony. Before another word can be said, Mark grunts and, quite roughly, pushes past him, not even daring to breathe when he passes Lexie. The scrape of chairs on hardwood floors can be heard and heavy footsteps echoing. Derek, no doubt.

By the time Mark's got his jacket and is halfway out the door, he's caught up with him. "You didn't—"

"No," he says curtly. Hit him, is what Derek means. "Wanted to though."

"Well, then. That's an improvement."

"I'm trying to evolve," Mark replies dryly.

"Do you want to go to Joe's? Grab a drink, maybe?" They both step out on the porch, one following the other to the driveway. "Or I could just head up to the trailer with you."

If he didn't feel so suffocated, he'd smile at Derek's over the top concern these last few months. "Stop trying so hard. You've redeemed yourself for all those years of crap you threw at me, so just…stop trying so hard."

Derek frowns though, and when he speaks, sounds uncharacteristically offended. "You think because I want to make sure you're all right, that I'm trying to settle some score?" His eyes soften when Mark grins sheepishly and looks away. "I guess I deserve that. I exactly haven't been the model best friend, have I?" He chuckles good-naturedly, the kind where he's embarrassed by something he's done. "So. I don't need to keep an eye on you all the time, huh?"

Mark leans against the door of his car, letting a heavy sigh escape his mouth. "I think I'm going to be all right."

"I knew you would be," he nods, completely serious now.

The unmistakable squeak of hinges against wood draws both their attention to the figure emerging from the house.

She's wearing a sweater, arms wrapped securely around her torso to ward off the cold night air. "Can I talk to you for a second?" Completely ignoring her housemate, she talks directly to Mark. He can feel Derek's eyes on him, assessing once again, and wishes that people would really stop looking at him like he's about knock something out.

"Yeah," he answers and refrains from frowning when it comes out sounding huskier than he wants. They wait as Derek leaves them alone on the pavement, shooting Mark one last look that clearly says _Don't do anything stupid_.

A strand of hair falls across her face, and his hand twitches by his side, wanting to fall into the old habit of moving to push it behind her ear. "Thank you, for not..." she gestures towards the house, obviously meaning her prepubescent-looking date.

"I figured you had enough unpleasant memories of me. Didn't want to leave you with another." He shrugs casually, as though idea doesn't terrify him. Like his blood pressure hasn't just skyrocketed by her proximity five feet away. Something passes over her face, too swift to be recognizable by his emotional shortcomings. He pushes off the car and opens the door, the picture definition of cool and composed. "If that's it?"

She looks confused for a moment, opens her mouth to say something but just nods instead. "Nothing else." There's a hint of something in her voice that he can't quite place. The slightest of trembles which makes him think it's in his head.

The engine turns over, and as he backs out on to the road, he can't help but think something vital has just shifted.

* * *

It starts when he realizes he hasn't had a smoke in the last two days. He opens the drawers, but finds nothing rolling around. The pockets of his jacket and the glove compartment in the car are next and they, too, are devoid of any cigarettes. He has no clue how he went 48 hours without the need for one.

For the next few days, he avoids any form of establishment that might house the toxic sticks. He's twitchy and irritable. Then, Derek tosses a box of nicotine patches at his head with a _Do us all a favour_and he doesn't know how Derek knows, but supposes that's why he's his best friend.

The urge comes back though, of course, but it's quieter. And he wonders if this is how it begins. The healing.

* * *

Sweat trickles down his back, making his already damp t-shirt cling even more to his body as he pounds the earth with a steady _thump thump thump_. It's a slow pace, hardly qualifying to be called a run, and it's only been about 30 minutes, but already his heart is thrashing wildly and his are lungs refusing to cooperate. Puffs of air escape him in wheezes and he has to stop twice so he doesn't go into cardiac arrest, cursing himself all the while at his idiocy for ever picking up a cigarette.

The night air cools his skin as he runs, not enough to be considered pleasant but enough to keep him going, and the sound of his falling footsteps echo off the trees and into the distance. He focuses on the sound, a set rhythm, and it clears his head of things that he shouldn't be thinking of in the first place.

He rounds the bend, passing a blue sedan that he knows all too well and has had more than one sexual encounter in.

She sits, head in hands and elbow on knees, on the set of wooden stairs in front of the trailer, in her black heels and a dress that hugs every contour of her body.

As he comes closer, slowing to a stop, an uncontrollable itch sets fire to his lungs, turning the pathetic wheezes into a full blown coughing spasm and he doubles over, hacking bits of black into his hand. There's movement in the peripheral of his eye; then long smooth legs move into view in front of him, and even on his knees he can feel the concern extruding from her. He blindly waves a hand to ward her off lest she touches him, and the legs automatically take a step back. "I'm fine," he rasps when he's done coughing up a lung.

"Clearly," she says dryly, the word dripping with sarcasm, but doesn't move any closer. He rips the nicotine patch glued to his forearm, already far over the allotted time for it, and doesn't miss the look of mild surprise on her face. "When did you stop smoking?"

"Awhile back," he answers with enough snark to see the reflexive twitch of her jaw as she swallows whatever biting remark had been sitting on the tip of her tongue. It's close to 2AM and he has a pretty good idea of where she has been tonight dressed like that. His stomach tightens, but he aptly ignores it. "Where's Adolf?"

"It's _Adam_," she bristles, and he merely shrugs an indifferent shoulder.

"What are you doing here?"

She's unsure of herself now, eyes flicking about nervously, and giving a weak grin. "I had to see for myself. Mark Sloan, living in a trailer."

"Lexie." He's tired. It's not the kind that comes from running or the time of night, but, a weariness that sits on his shoulders, seeping into muscle and bone and into his blood. "It's late. And I'm not in the mood—"

"I don't regret you," she blurts. "I wanted to tell you—in case you thought…I wanted for you to know, you're not a mistake. And that, I don't regret you."

He regards her, trying to figure out where she's coming from. It's been weeks since the dinner, and he hasn't seen hide or hair of her. "You drove out here for that?"

"And to see the trailer." A frail attempt at a joke.

"Right." He nods, once, trying to remain unaffected by her admission. He wants so desperately to be done, instead of feeling like he's stuck on some horrible loop where every few weeks they collide to rip each other's insides out. "That all?"

"Yeah," she visibly deflates, shoulders slumping, "that's all."

"Okay," he says coolly, and feels enough of an ass to look away. It wasn't long ago that he was on the other side of this situation, except it still stings and he's going with the _Too Little, Too Late_school of thought.

"Okay," she echoes dejectedly, and he tries to not let it wiggle its way into his heart. "So, I guess I'll go then." She half turns, awkwardness inciting her actions. "I'll, uh, see you around?" Nervous laughter. "Probably not though, right?"

He watches her take a few tentative steps. And there's something in the fact that she's once again walking away from him, that sends him into an impulsive panic. "Stay the night," he blurts.

"What?" Unfounded surprise schools her features, eyebrows arching up, jaw unhinging.

He bites the inside of his cheek, realizing how it sounds and quickly qualifies his statement. "It's late. I don't want you-You shouldn't be out driving at this time. Stay the night. You can leave in the morning." Having experienced her driving first hand, there's no chance in hell he's about to let her go down a steep mountainside on a dirt road.

"Mark …" The apologetic tone annoys him for a second, and he wants to tell her he's not doing this to fuck her so she can just stop looking like she's devising a get-away plan. It passes though, the irritation, and with it comes renewed concern.

"Stay the night, Lexie," he repeats. "Please."

She's chewing on her lip. Hesitating.

"Just because we're not … together, doesn't mean I don't worry," he says quietly.

She looks over her shoulder, at the car, glances at him, and then finally nods her consent. "All right. Where would I…?"

"Take the bed. I can sleep in the hammock," he offers. It's going to kill his back, sleeping in that thing.

"Don't be ridiculous. I'll take the couch, and you can take the bed."

He half-smiles. "I forgot how impossible you are."

"One of my many quirks," she teases, and something familiar falls between them. Easy and comfortable.

For a moment, everything is okay.

She brushes past him into the cramped trailer. He stays by the door, observing her. Her cautious footsteps. The tilt of her head as she pieces together his new life. She pivots unexpectedly and he quickly drops his eyes to anything but her. "Do you think I could-That is, if you don't mind-?" When it becomes evident he's at a complete loss for what she's trying to say, Lexie tries again, this time, far more meekly. "Um, could I borrow some clothes?"

"Oh." Mark blinks. Of course. It's a perfectly logical request, yet, he feels little shocks with each step he takes to the closet. "Yeah, sure." He grabs a pair of old shorts and the Columbia sweatshirt he knows she loves but is entirely too large, and hands them to her.

He stands outside, fingers pinching the bridge between his eyebrows.

Emotionally and mentally drained; an accurate term to describe his state of being right now.

"Mark?" She yells from inside and he effectively squishes the tiny surge of hope that springs with it.

"Yeah?" When he steps inside, the sight that greets him is barely different than when he left. She's very much still in her dress, except, with her back fully to him, fingers brushing the edge of something metallic.

"I can't … The zipper is stuck." The plea is soft in her voice, and he gives it half a second's thought before he complies.

Gathering her hair in one hand, he pushes it over a shoulder, exposing the naked skin above the dip of her dress. He places a hand on her back, holding the cloth next to the zipper in place and fingers digging into bare skin to brace himself. He looks up, locking eyes with her in the mirror. She's staring back, and even in the dark of the night he can see the reddening of her cheeks. Pupils, dilated and full. And he _knows_that look. Knows what it means.

He hesitates, a slight pause of the hand before giving in. Fingers trail down her back, gliding over soft skin until they hit the cool metal of the zipper. He moves closer, standing so the top of her head comes to rest somewhere near the side of his jaw, grazing it lightly. Something stirs in him, prickling his senses, and whatever it is, seems to flow right through him and into her because she gives a small shudder when he gives a sharp tug, freeing the stubborn metal from its place. It slides easily then, going smoothly down the teeth.

His heartbeat quickens and his tongue wets his chapped lips; in the reflection, her eyes follow the action. The trailer feels entirely too hot and clammy. Sweat perforates his pores, and he feels intoxicated. Drunk, on her perfume, her warmth, her presence. Goosebumps rise on her flesh, his breath white hot on her neck, the pad of his thumb imprinting her back. He takes his time as he watches her. The slow rise and fall of her chest. Eyes, darkened considerably, focused on him. His eyes follow a familiar path, trailing over cheekbone and lips, going down the column of her neck and lingering on the swell of her breast.

The zipper reaches the end of its track, and he's tempted to run a hand back up her naked skin, over the smooth curvature of her spine. He almost does, fingertips within a breadth of contact, but she takes the decision out his hands when she turns. Silently. Leans half an inch closer. He can't resist then and settles a hand under her chin, tipping it up gently. She easily complies, and he takes it a step farther and rubs his thumb over her lips, back and forth, absorbing the feel. She's still watching him. Breaths leaving her in deep even strokes. He scans her face, the subtle arch of her brows, the individual lashes on her eyes, her barely parted lips, and can feel the warmth radiating off of her. They're playing with fire - his thumb still on her lips. A bit more pressure and the tip of his finger pushes through the soft flesh, into wet heat. He's already half hard against her hip, and it won't be much longer before it's a full erection. Her eyes slide close, face nudging up towards his. She wants this. Wants_ him._All he has to do is bend his head, and she's not going to resist, not this time. And it's not like he hasn't done this before, been in a compromising position with an unavailable woman. There shouldn't be any hesitation on his part.

But.

That's not the person he wants to be anymore. There have been mistakes made in his past, but he's not an idiot. He's dealt with more than his share of self-loathing and destructiveness, grown to be able to read the signs, and if he continues down this path, it's where it will inevitably lead.

More importantly, he doesn't want to be responsible for turning her into that person.

So he steps away. Takes his hands off her, and retreats to a corner of the trailer. He shoves his hands into his pant pockets, fingers clutching the fabric, and gnaws on his lips. "Is he good to you?"

Her eyes open with a startle. "W-what?"

He shuffles his feet, half in frustration, half in awkwardness, but forces himself to press on. "You like him?"

"Why are you-?"

"I'm trying, Lexie. And I can't…I need you to tell me he's not a little shit-head. That you're happy. It wasn't all for nothing." He clenches and unclenches his fist. "That's the only way I can do this."

She looks at him, eyes wide with incredulity, like he's out of his mind. And he thinks that's probably an accurate guess. Then, her face hardens. Contorting itself in an expression of disgust and when she speaks, the words ring with hollow honesty. "He's not a shit-head. I'm happy. It wasn't all for nothing. Is that what you wanted to hear?" It's biting, like vicious little barbs digging into his flesh, and he winces from the cynicism behind it. She continues, anger seeping into the form of clipped tones, "Are you satisfied now, or should I go on? What do you want to hear next? How he fucked me in his bed?"

His lungs constrict. Why can't she he's only trying to do the right thing? "Lexie…" he pleads softly.

"Or maybe you want to know how I couldn't even come-"

"Stop," he says hoarsely. His ears burn, a mixture of embarrassment and guilt.

"-because all I kept thinking was how his lips were too soft and his hands were rougher-"

He squeezes his eyes closed. Speaks through a clenched jaw. "Don't do this."

"-and he didn't fit the same because he wasn't you." Her voice cracks at the end, a horribly broken sound that he's not used to hearing on her lips. His heart throbs wildly against his ribs, extruding with hurt for her. "Jesus, he's not _you_."

He stays on his side of the trailer, not taking a step closer. Not allowing himself to touch her. And this is what he wants to hear, isn't it? That she's been pining for him all along? That she made a mistake leaving? Instead it eats away at him, because it's so far from what he wants for her.

Fingers press into her lips, her cheeks flushed and wet with silent tears, and she shakes her head. "God, Mark. What the hell is the matter with you?"

He can't look at her, because she's right. "I'm sorry," he says forcefully; regret burning fresh on his tongue.

"You're such an ass." Softer this time, with no real heat behind it.

"I'm sorry," he repeats gruffly. And he is.

She stands, in the dress, arm tucked neatly underneath the other that's to her mouth, looking lost more than ever. He wants to hug her. Instead, he grabs the sweatshirt and shorts off the floor, holding them out to her in another silent apology. "You chose this. You left without even giving a half-assed reason and now that I'm finally getting my shit together…You can't just show up and expect that I'll come running back." It comes out harsher than he intends, but it's the truth. He can't keep going back and forth between this tug of war of emotions over her. When he talks this time, it's gentle, quiet. "We can't do this, and you know that."

Her eyes widen at the finality of his tone, but he doesn't allow himself to linger any longer in the trailer. Once outside and far enough away, he leans back against the hardened trunk of a tree, trying to convince himself he did the right thing.

He ends up sleeping in the hammock after all. When he wakes up with a sore back, the sedan is already gone.

* * *

_"Is this how you imagined your life would end up?"_

_"Domesticated?" he asks innocently._

_She laughs, loudly. "I guess. Sort of."_

_They're sitting in the tub, water lukewarm now. He runs a hand up the inside of her thigh and smiles at her sharp intake of breath. "I really wasn't thinking past the sex and money." He's only half serious and she seems to know this, because her head tilts back and she nuzzles his neck affectionately. "This is better though," he sighs, letting himself sink farther. "So much fucking better."_

* * *

While they've never had an actual meeting of the Dirty Mistresses Club, he has always held a soft spot for his best friend's girlfriend. An instant camaraderie formed when they got involved with their respective Shepherds; a mutual understanding of the other. So when he notices her trying to discreetly stare at him in the elevator out of the corner of her eye, he can't help but grin at her lack of subtlety.

She turns, finally, to face him, brows furrowed. "Can I ask you something?"

He's heard her talk like this once before, in a scrub room when she told him to grow up, and what ever she's going to say, he's not going to want to hear so he deflects. "You and Derek finally game for a threesome?"

She frowns. "I'm being serious here."

There's no escaping this, and since she's never been one to hold anything against him before, he acquiesces with a small nod. "Shoot."

Her eyes study him, briefly, before, "What happened up there? That night Lexie went to see you?" He's partly surprised she knows the truth about where her sister was. Then again, the two have a very abnormal relationship that includes random spurts of sisterly bonding, so there's no telling what Meredith really knows. It must show on his face though, his surprise, because she half shrugs and rolls her eyes. "She likes to talk to Derek. Who likes to talk to me."

Suddenly feeling uneasy under her gaze, he shoves his hands into his jacket and avoids direct eye contact. "Nothing. We talked, that's all." And that's the truth of it; he's very painfully aware that nothing happened. She continues to watch him, a look on her face as though trying to discern any lies from his features. He must pass the test because her expression changes to something akin to amusement and playfulness, much like the time she cleaned the cut on his cheek after Derek punched him.

"You _have _changed."

He flashes an abashed smile. "It would seem so."

They step off the elevator in concert, and he freezes when Lexie passes by, gripping the arm of another man, laughing into his shoulder. There's no sharp pain, no pins poking into his heart. He doesn't go into numbness. Only a dull ache between his lungs and a knot in his stomach, but it's better than before so he files it away as an improvement.

Meredith's voice startles him, half-apologetic and half sounding like she shouldn't be telling him this. "There's this shirt she's been wearing, when she goes to sleep. Columbia. And I know she went to Harvard, so …" she shrugs.

He wonders if she knows the magnitude of it means for him to know that. Probably. "Thank you," rumbles past his lips.

She smiles. "You're welcome."

* * *

_"What?" Pulling the toothbrush out of his mouth, he turns to her with a raised brow._

_"Nothing," she says dismissively but continues to scrutinize him, eyes squinting like they normally do when she's thinking at hundred miles per hour. "It's just…" she starts, a few minutes later, as he spits into the sink, "Are you…happy?"_

_His answer comes automatically, without hesitation. "Yeah." Running the brush under the tap he looks at her, sitting on the bed in nothing but a pair of sweats and her bra. And, not entirely sure if he wants to know the answer, asks, "Are you?"_

_There's a slight pause, almost imperceptible, and his heart instantly lodges itself in his throat._

_Then._

_"Happier than I've been in a long time," she says with a small smile that twitches at her lips._

_He stretches his mouth in a wide grin, ears red and feeling ridiculously pleased with himself. "Good."_

* * *

There's a calmness in him now. An unexplainable source of peace within that he's not entirely ungrateful for. He thinks before he speaks, before he acts; always has to an extent, it's just that, now, he takes his time. With everything. He's not 20 anymore and whether he likes to be believe it or not, the years are quickly slipping by and the dim hope of that Once Upon A Time dream Addison instilled in him, the one with monogamous relationships and onesies that he didn't know how desperately he wanted until it dissolved away, grows dimmer.

He hasn't reached the point where he's getting up at three in the morning to catch fish, but he does take walks. Whenever he can. The two thousand dollar shoes get replaced with four hundred dollar hiking boots well equipped for the terrain; for trails leading through forests, over streams, and looping around the base of the mountain. And, between the silence of the forest and the silence inside of him, he thinks about things more than he ever cared to before. About New York, and Addison in L.A. Growing up with the Shepherds. What he might be doing this instant if he had never opened Pandora's Box with his best friend's wife.

And he finds it strange how everything has conspired to bring him here today, to mould him into who he is because of it.

_If_ he had never shared his lunch with Derek that first time. _If_ he hadn't gone to med school._ If_ he hadn't fucked over his best friend by fucking his wife. _If_ Addison had been willing to try. _If_Lexie had never showed up at his hotel room. A seemingly unrelated string of events in life that led him to Seattle Grace and Lexie Grey.

He understands it's stranger in of itself, for him to be thinking like this. For him to be existing in this manner. And while Mark has never taken a class of philosophy in his life, lately, it seems crucial to figure out these things about how he ended up where he did, if it was inevitable for it to happen. It's important now, the tiny details about who he is. The person who he thinks he wants to be. And his mind drifts back to that cliché about not knowing where you're going if you don't know where you're coming from, and figures there's probably some honesty in that because he doesn't know the answer to either.

He thinks about Lexie. Whether it was love, or something else. With Addison, he had been sure it was, that she had been the one. And, for a while, he was different. After, though, after the abortion and Karev and the fights and everything else, while he wanted to be better for her, he was indefinitely still the same. Perhaps, even a worse version than before.

But Lexie's changed him. He comes to that conclusion one morning, as he hikes along a stream bank. From the start she's been a catalyst for it. Something has inherently shifted in him. Made him softer, he thinks. He's no Sydney Heron by any means, but over all, he likes to believe he's less sordid than before. And it's frustrating, the undistinguishable border between Love and Not Love, and maybe a part of him is in denial because, at first, the pain had been excruciating. He had been a mess, he can't look around that. Except, now, he can't tell if it was about the changes she sowed, the person she allowed him to grow into, or something entirely deeper. Somewhere in his gut, he thinks he knows the answer.

There's a part of him that's hesitant to label this. All he knows is that things are different, which doesn't mean they're bad - just not the same as before. And, while change has never been kind to him, it has been some sort of a blessing in disguise this time around, bringing a cathartic flush. It's not like he's a new man - not exactly. But there is a certain feeling of having new life breathed into him.

He teaches the interns now, uses them for something other than cappuccino duty. He's polite to the nurses; and makes it through entire conversations with the opposite sex without feeling the need to expel a single innuendo. He's more of a half-way decent human being than anyone figured he could be. It's what he tried to do after Addison, the new leaf he was struggling to turn. But it comes naturally now. More than that, he finds it satisfying, apparently having expanded his social conscious to include more than disfigured patients. And he sees, even through her absence she's making him a better man.

"There's something in the air up there," Derek chuckles when Mark tells him about his newfound hobby. "It tends to give you perspective on things."

Even Callie notices. "You're a lot quieter these days," she remarks from across the table, picking at her salad. Behind her, Lexie's sitting with the other interns on the other side of the cafeteria. "Everything all right?"

He concentrates over her shoulder; she's laughing, waving a juice box around in her hand, exuberantly.

"Mid-life crisis," he jokes, except he must be pretty close to the truth because, what else could it be? He's changed more in the few months apart from her than he has in his lifetime.

"Well, this Zen thing looks good on you. Easier to attract chicks, right?" She laughs at her own joke, and Mark goes along with it, faking a chuckle or two-he hasn't had sex for close to two and half months now.

Lexie gets up, presumably having finished her lunch, and chucks the tiny cardboard box in the recycle bin. Her eyes lock with his when she turns around and there is a momentary blip of something old and forgotten, just out of his grasp, and it pulls on his heart more than it should. But then her gaze drops, and he's reminded of days long gone when things would have played out differently-him smirking knowingly and a red tinge colouring her cheeks as she grinned abashedly back at him. A steady throb of sorrow and nostalgia floods his senses and he feels it in his fingertips, hears it in his ears disguised as the rhythm of his heart. He breathes deeply, still watching as she leaves.

He's starting to find it hurts less each day.

* * *

While the snow has melted, there's a persistent chill that still hangs in the air. Mark finds her huddled on the bench outside, hands tucked between thighs in an attempt to ward off the cold. "No boyfriend tonight?" There's no bitterness in his tone, only a half-hearted attempt at friendly banter.

She shrugs, almost indifferently. "Broke up with him."

He takes the seat next to her, knees not quite touching, but close enough. "At least now I don't have to pretend to not know his name." For a small moment, her face lights up and he gives himself a mental pat on the back. "I'm-" _Sorry_falls just short of his lips. He's not, so he amends himself to only a half-lie. "It's too bad it didn't work out."

"You really think so?"

He shrugs. "Something to say."

"I thought I would care more. I should, shouldn't I? It's been almost three months, but…" She shrugs again, picking at her jacket. Her eyes seek something in the darkness, for what, he's not sure, but when she speaks, it is strung together with simple honesty. "You deserved better. It wasn't that I didn't want to be with you—It's just…I couldn't give you wanted. And you deserved better than that."

Mark looks at his hands, sudden apprehension taking hold. This conversation has, for countless times, played out in his head, each with a slightly different reason. But, what's happened happened and finds he doesn't have the burning need to know anymore. It doesn't matter, the reason; there still would have been pain, and then cleansing. And maybe she did him a favour in all this, because this isn't something he would have understood before her. "You don't need to do this."

"Okay," she half-whispers. They don't speak for a while. The hint of awkwardness sways between them, eclipsed by something else though. It's unspoken, the familiar something that clings to them, and they easily fall into the odd comfortableness of it.

She's the one to break the silence first.

"Did you … Did you love me? Back then."

He shifts, rubbing the fabric of his pants between forefinger and thumb, watches patients drift in and out of the hospital doors. Now, the question coming directly from her mouth, the answer comes easier than he expects. "No." It's surprising, perhaps, to both.

"Oh," she sucks in a breath, and he can't tell whether it's wishful thinking on his part at the almost disappointment in her voice. "I thought-"

"I know," he agrees simply, nodding. "But-" pauses briefly, a hand grazing across her cheek and when she leans into his touch, effectively staying his hand against her face, he can't deny it doesn't tug on his heart a little that the contact isn't wholly unwelcome. "I wanted to. I think I could have. If you had let me."

Her eyes close against his skin, and he feels the gentle flutter of her lashes, the air she breathes, warm, on the heel of his palm. "Do you think you could now? If I let you?"

He lets his hand fall away, a sad smile playing on his lips. "It doesn't work like that," he talks softly, gently, like he would explain to a child.

Lexie embraces the part, eyes rapidly blinking open, wide and curious. "Why not?" Her lips pout a little, and he wants nothing more than to throw his head back and laugh. Or maybe tug on them with his, he's not sure. But despite the light-hearted tones, he understands the magnitude of this conversation; the seriousness of what she's asking of him.

"Because." And leaves it at that, knowing full well how much the cryptic answer will aggravate her need to know everything. He grabs her hand. Squeezes it. Tries to tell her that it isn't about her. He's only just found himself in a good place, more at peace with himself than he ever has been and he doesn't want to loose his footing quite yet.

But, she has changed too because she only nods her head instead, and squints at him. "Because you quit smoking?"

He's not surprised by her insight; she's always known him a shade better than everyone else, even at the beginning. He nods imperceptibly. "Something like that."

A small noise parts from her mouth as she lays her head on his shoulder, and he lets her. They're allowed to do this now. And it's been a while since they've touched. "I thought I'd lost you." Her voice is tiny, even for her, and it echoes inside of him.

He can't help it; his heart breaks a little.

All that smoking must finally be catching up because his lungs don't seem to be working properly right now, and he has to breathe through his mouth. "I've always been right here, Lex." Their fingers rub against each other, skin on skin, and the tingle reverberates throughout his body. He doesn't know how to tell her that despite of everything that happened, all the words exchanged and pain caused at the expense of the other, he has never left her side. Not really.

Coldness wets the skin of his neck and this isn't a new thing that she does, the tears without the sound or the uncontrollable shudders. He hears her inhale through her mouth, a delicate intake of air. "I lost sight of you. And I didn't want to."

He doesn't know what to say to that, so he remains silent. Wisps of hair tickle the underside of his jaw, his neck, as she shifts and moves her head. It's nice, this quiet stretch of time. Simply being with her. It's what he's always imagined, ten years from now. And he's reminded of roads and paths and other unexpected turns of events that somehow always lead them to where they need to be, and smiles at the irony of them, now, sitting here together. Both a little bit more jaded and worse for wear, but eventually going to be all right, he thinks.

"We can't go back, can we?"

He squeezes her hand, keeping his voice low. "I don't think so."

She stirs again. "It hurts." Her voice catches and a sudden ache springs in his chest, throbbing in time to his heart.

"It gets better." And for the most part, it does. It scabs over like any other wound. They sit for a while longer. Somehow his lips end up pressed against her scalp, nose buried in the brown silk of her hair, breathing in her shampoo. "I wish…" he searches for words, "things weren't like this. With us. I want to give you more, Lexie, but I'm not…" He shakes his head.

She's the one to squeeze hands this time, letting him know it's okay; she understands. And he sees now, what she was trying to tell him before. They're moving at different paces. In different directions, maybe.

"Well..." She moves, getting up slowly, and he immediately yearns for the lost contact. "I better get going." She steps forward, arms coming up for maybe a handshake, but he likes the feeling of her against him, so pulls her into a hug instead. She doesn't resist, falling into him, and fits nicely under his chin. He's forgotten how little she really is.

She breaks then. Tiny whimpers escaping into the night air and he presses her tighter into his body, hands on her lower back and neck, hoping he can will comfort to pass through fabric and skin and bone. She's tucked into him, the leather of his jacket clutched hard in her small hands; her open mouth against the base of his throat, and nose buried in the curve of his neck. At that moment, he wants nothing more than to kiss her until the hurt and pain are nothing but fading bruises, but he still has his own scars to heal and this isn't a piece of himself that he can give away quite yet. So he just holds on instead.

"I wrecked your shirt," she says as she begins to pull away, voice slightly quivering.

"S'kay," he says softly, reluctantly releasing his hold. He isn't ready to let go yet, but does anyway; he thinks he might never be. "I didn't like it all that much anyways."

"It's your favourite."

He forgets how well she knows him. "You okay to go home?"

"Yeah," she exhales, pushing away hair behind an ear. "I'm good to go."

He shoves his hands in his pockets, so he doesn't something irrevocably stupid like reach out for her, and is the first to leave. A few tentative feet later he turns, a spontaneous idea gripping him, and grins, white teeth flashing in the night, tilting his head towards her. "Here's looking at you, kid." And winks for good measure.

She laughs, a real one; head thrown back, shoulders shaking. Until the sound dies down, for a few seconds all is right in his world.

He knows he's going to see her tomorrow. The day after; next week. And there's a good chance they will never go back to what they once were, to the ease and comfort they used to have. But there is that whisper of a possibility. The three percent they first took a leap of faith on to make it work. There's still that; it's still something, and he wants to believe that eventually they'll both be moving side by side, in synch. But that day isn't today; it might not come for some time.

And for right now, he's okay.

* * *

_"Tell me something."_

_"What?"_

_Legs tangle with his, her voice a whisper against his cheek. "Anything."_

_For a moment, only heartbeats fall between them. "I don't want to lose you," he says quietly._

_Her breath is warm on his lips, hand seeking his own in the darkness. She replies, just as quiet, "You won't."_

* * *

pur -ga -to -ry [púrgətəri]

_adj_-a cleansing or purification of the soul.

* * *

_Fin_

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